My fingers bound across the keyboard. I empty out as the pages fill up. The cat perches himself on the wooden railing surrounding the mezzanine. He keeps watch, and his fur glows golden under an old photography lamp. The building is quiet except for the sound of a raga in my ears. The day can only get worse from here.
And I need all the reasons I can find not to hate myself. But it’s hard. Even the idea makes me shiver. Because I see loving myself like looking down on others. Riding around on a high horse. And I never want to think I’m better then the people I see on the street. The ones who have it rough. The ones who don’t fit in. The ones I see my own face in.
Comments
Post a Comment